


Aesthetic Boards

by Icechild



Category: Original Work
Genre: 10 Minute Writing Prompt, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I take requests, Random & Short, aesthetic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-01-31 00:03:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21436882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icechild/pseuds/Icechild
Summary: No characters. No real ones anyways. Every chapter is a different aesthetic scene. Imagery and other things tied together to suit moods and random writing inspiration or simply just to get images down onto paper. My friends or peers or professors will give me an object and I write a small story about it. Feel free to give me requests! I write to images, songs, objects, anything really.Feel free to use any of these to kick off a story if you're stuck on any parts of your own WIPs.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	1. Batttle Fields

What is life without pain? What is joy with no sorrow, life without living, breath with no breathing? The words that we use to define the most basic things can be ripped and swallowed into mere shreddings of their meanings. It’s the very same ways that lives can be taken at a moment's notice. The way the sun beams may dance across a field of grass that becomes stained with blood with each passing second. The way metals meet leathers. Kevlars meet weapons. The way the dirt and grime of a city street or the mud of a battle field can become so ingrained with a skin that it feels as if it’s grown there. The muddy metals of armor coated in browns. Rain pouring down from the sky as if the world herself were weeping for the loss of good men, honorable men. History believes the winner but never the losing side gets a chance at redemption. They are taken from and taken from and no one will know their side of the story that led them to their placings. 

Soldiers standing in a field of battle, looking at their brothers in the eyes and knowing their death is to come. Standing shoulder to shoulder looking at their last sky. The wind washing around them and pulling them to something more. Guiding them to protect their lands and their lives. Their families back at home the innocent. The rain running down their bodies and washing away the blood and the pain of sorrows from long ago. 

One last sunset. One last sunrise. One last breath.

Campfires of bonding and camaraderie turned to fires of oil and screaming. No more jousting and games now it’s real weaponry pointed and aimed. Shredding through protective layers and tearing through flesh. Blood spraying into the air and covering the skin and armor of friends and enemies alike. 

We were born to die were we not?  


To stand for what we believe in and nothing more nothing less. To fight for our rights and wrongs because people may take your life but not your heart. They may lay claim to lands but not souls. Blood flowing through wounds, fires raging in the fields, screams of fighting. Rain and blood and sweat together. A cacophony of sound and sight and smell. Words so eloquent that men can stand tall. Know that though this may be the last day they see of the earth that it is a good one. Though it is full of what many consider to be harmful and foul they are together and they are proud. 

Pride. A funny thing, a fickle thing. Something that drives lords clothed in rich colors and fine jewelry to stake claim to more than they own or deserve. Cobblestone streets and cobblestone castles. Hay bales and farms, lanterns and laughter. Clouds that cover the sun streams as they shimmer to the earth. Warming the blades of grass that once housed a bloody war. Blades of grass and thistleweeds rubbing and brushing in a summer's breeze. No more harsh edges or clashes of swords. No more screams of trampled soldiers or shouts of pain. 

Every day a new sun, every day a new start, a new chance. A probability of warmth and sun, a chance of life. A life with pain and suffering but also laughter and light. A heart with scars but full of love. Soft edges and warm clothes in winters. Gentle flurries of snow rather than blizzards. Red noses rather than frozen corpses. Gentle laps of water over a raging sea. Flowers and nature filling the air over the sweat and iron of crimson liquid that fed the soil that now holds plot to plants that feed the new world. 

To look out into a sea of blues or a field of greens and see the colors of a war to come. To look upon the sky and the clouds and know they may be the last ones you ever encounter. To smile on last time or to laugh at a captor as chains clink around your wrists and ankles. To know pain and suffering but every joy the world could possibly have to offer. To see the ships sails billowing in the wind or the flag of a nation flapping gently in the breeze. To have warm molten metals to be forged into great weapons or frozen swords laying crusted with sea salt and blood in a frozen crimson tundra. 

What is life without pain?

A world where grays rule the world. Pain may hurt, it may burn and itch and claw at every bit of your insides but pain is a color. A color so bright and so powerful that it can light the world by only a small dose. Pain will bring a new day. Paint a new sun and give way to life. 

What is life without pain?

No life at all. 


	2. Shoe Box

Coffee grounds and buzzing bees. Something suburban moms and families loved. Old books, fairy lights, socks on wooden floors. Marbles and jax rolling on the floor. Sun shimmering through the plated glass on the front door. Plush carpets and fluffy blankets. A TV set to some random kids show. Playing quietly in the background. The forefront were chokes. 

A mother and father. A son and daughter. Tied into chairs that once held them as they ate warm home cooked meals. False plants sitting in the windowsill and dinner being stirred on the stove. 

Tears. Glistening like raindrops down cheeks. The father to be stoic and show nothing but his anger at the putrid acts beheld before him. A mother crying in tears of fear for her babies. A son trying in vain to fight back. Trying to be the boy that many people said he must be. Trying to hold strong and be brave even though the world had tipped its hat. Life wasn't supposed to be like this. 

It wasn't meant to be empty shoeboxes and void hangers. It wasn't built to be a young child. Eyes blue as the sky and covered with the gloss of salty tear drops. Wrists chafing against wooden armrests. Ribbon from ballet shoes wrapped tightly around her throat as soles of shoes were shoved into her mouth to keep her from screaming. Choking on tears and sobs and her own tongue. Her own body turning against her. Pulled hair but the stove had dinner. The stove still had dinner and the house still smelled like home. Still smelled of coffee grounds and bacon from breakfast. Chicken breasts and orange juice, garlic, onion and chive blending in to an odd smell of home and family and life. The girl choked. And choked. And choked. The lace pulled tighter, her lips turned blue. No turning back. The blood vessels in her eyes bursting and tears spilling so hard and fast it soaked the silk that caused them. 

One last shuddering breath. 

Glazed over dull blue. Lifeless blue. 

Sobbing in the house. 

Bees buzzing outside. 

An empty shoe box sitting next to her chair. 

**Author's Note:**

> Again, if anyone would like to send me a song to listen to or send me a picture or message in an object I would be more than happy to write a chapter about it. I love writing, especially aesthetic shorts like these. Please let me know what you think and tell me how often you'd like to see chapters!  
Any of you can use these for your own stories, my only request is you tell me, I'd love to read them.  
I hope you enjoyed and thank you so much for reading, it means a lot!


End file.
